


The Art of Mending

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: Zaeed gets her. It takes Jack a long time to appreciate that fact.





	The Art of Mending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AceQueenKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/gifts).



> A treat for AceQueenKing. And a mighty Thank You for organizing this years Rare Pair Exchange. I live for this.

“Ever hear of _kintsugi_?” The old man asks and she nearly tells him to fuck off like every other time he’s tried to talk to her. But this one time there’s something in his voice that makes her stop and look at him. She forces herself to see the scars and blind eye, can’t stop the curl of her lip as she takes in the graying hair and lines that map his face.

Just another dirty old fuck with too much time on his hands, wandering the ship, pestering everyone with his stories. Not worth her time.

So why the hell does she stop?

“What?”

He leans back in his chair, satisfied he’s gotten her attention. “ _Kintsugi_. Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. You should look into it sometime.”

“And why the fuck would I want to do that?”

He shrugs. “Might be something of interest to you.”

Her lip curls up all on its own. “Fuck off.”

Jack stomps out of the mess and down into her lair and forgets all about goddamn _kintsa_ -whatever. She has better things to do with her time than mull over old men and their scars and their goddamn fucking bullshit.

~~~~~

She thinks she’ll never see any of them again after coming back from the Omega 4 relay. She should know better. Especially considering Commander Shepard and her goodie-two-shoes let’s-all-have-a-family-reunion get together. The morning after the party, the old man finds her in the bedroom where she’s pulling chin-ups. He looks worse for wear, eyes blurry from drink, jaw dark with an overnight shadow of stubble.

He holds a nondescript brown box out to her. “Got ya something.”

She doesn’t stop pulling chin-ups, grunting extra hard for show. “What the hell is it?”

“Present. The hell do you think?” He sets it on the bed and leaves. And she tells herself she doesn’t care in the slightest if she ever sees his fucked up face again. But she drops down from the bar and lifts the lid on the box. Tucked inside tissue paper is a small, delicate bowl, painted the faintest of light gray with a sheaf of wheat traced in black on the outside. It’s been broken into many pieces and put back together with a fine web of shimmering gold. She holds the bowl up to the light.

It’s so thin she can see through it.

~~~~~

She holds her team together by pure hatred of what might happen to them if the Reapers win. She’s never coddled, never let them get away with shit. But she’ll be damned if one hair on any of their heads gets so much as bent. She hands out energy bars and water and reinforces barriers, sending shockwave after shockwave until it’s all her body knows or will ever know. She leads them because if she doesn’t, it’s the end of all of them.

She is the glue that holds them together.

~~~~~

She finds him on a beach, wearing a brightly colored shirt and drinking a ridiculously colored drink and just the fact that that tugs her mouth into a small grin is enough to set the bowl down on the bar next to him and take a seat. But not before she schools her mouth into a scowl.

“I’m the bowl. That’s what you’re trying to say.”

He barely reacts. As if he’s been expecting her at any moment. “Am I?” He glances at the bowl from the corner of his eye, spins the drink in front of him.

“And flaws are what make people interesting. Scars and shit.”

“Do they?” He summons the bartender and points at his nearly empty glass. “And something for the lady.”

She waves in the direction of whatever it is that Zaeed is having. “Some of that shit. But double. Old man can’t hold his liquor.”

“You’re the bowl, too, you old fucker,” she says eventually, unable to stand his silence.

“If you say so.”

The bartender sets their drinks down in front of them and they sit, looking out over the beach and blue water beyond.

“Asshole,” she mutters, and lets her arm relax on the bar against his.

Zaeed just laughs. “Yeah,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> While I've read some Jack/Zaeed fic, I've never really considered writing them. But I love Jack and her story and watching her develop the self-confidence to lead and instruct younger biotics. She really is the embodiment of a kintsugi bowl. (Many of us are and just don't realize it.)


End file.
